


House of Gold

by sidnihoudini



Series: House of Gold [1]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Italian Mafia, M/M, Wife Chris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-11 18:26:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2078520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidnihoudini/pseuds/sidnihoudini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WAS IT JUST A BIG FOURTH OF JULY CELEBRATION, or was it a cover for something more?  Longtime Los Angeles socalite and party fixture Chris Pine (son of actor Robert Pine) spent the weekend partying with his daddy of five years, New York businessman Zachary Quinto.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. and we're off to the races...

_WAS IT JUST A BIG FOURTH OF JULY CELEBRATION, or was it a cover for something more? Longtime Los Angeles socalite and party fixture Chris Pine (son of actor Robert Pine) spent the weekend partying with his daddy of five years, New York businessman Zachary Quinto. An ongoing investigation hints that Quinto may have deep ties to the underside of the East coast factioned mafia, however the FBI have not yet been able to move forward with any charges. One thing is for sure, though: nothing seemed to be on this couple’s mind as they partied with 100 of their closest friends on a $190,000,000 private yacht off of the Florida keys last weekend._ (Page Six)

~

and we’re off to the races...

_Fourth of July, somewhere in the Florida Keys_

The air is warm and smells like sunscreen and Cristal Brut champagne, perfume floating through the sea breeze as bassy, rhythm driven electronica pumps through the overhead sound system. There are bodies dancing on the teak deck, wrists and throats covered in jewelery, their torsos in red, white and blue. Most of the men here are wearing flip flops or boat shoes, the women in red pedicures or expensive Louboutin heels despite the warm, muggy Floridian weather.

And Chris is in the center of it all, a bonafide debutante, white shorts with a navy blue Miansai rope belt, gold watch and a heavy captain’s hat on his head as he dances. He rolls his body in time with the music, his torso still damp from when he had taken a swan dive into the ocean to the earlier delight of the crowd. The crowd moves with him as he dances, head tipped back, the familiar bodies around him rolling like the blue waves on the water below.

Zach isn’t around - this part, it isn’t his job, because Chris is the entertainer, the front, the warm friendly face. 

Instead, Zach is up on the blisteringly hot top deck, sunbathing and drinking whisky sours with his business partners; his most private inner circle. He will stay there, laughing and drinking and smoking in the sun, until the first round of appetizers have been served downstairs. Once the prosciutto and goat cheese begins to roll out, Chris will take a tray upstairs, grinning at Zach from across the white curves of the boat as he makes his way over, crawling up Zach’s deck chair with the sun hot on the nape of his neck and confetti stuck to his shoulders.

But now, long before the first round of appetizers have been served, Chris takes his time making his rounds on the lower deck, grinning wide and offering one armed hugs to the people he hasn’t seen for the last few months.

They’re in Florida often, but not regularly. Maybe once every two, three months, Chris would estimate - more so in the summer than in the cooler months of the year. Zach says that boat racing is more lucrative through the hottest months than any other, and that’s why they visit so regularly in July and August; but, truthfully, Chris would just really hate to own a yacht at all if they didn’t throw at least one white party per year.

He snags a flute of Cristal Brut with one hand as he passes by the pyramid of rose tinted champagne glasses. 

The champagne table is positioned between the roped off stairs that lead up to the second deck, and the closed off steps that lead below, into the private bottom cabin. Zach has always told Chris that - other than a gun, anyways - the best offense is a better defense. And in Zach’s life, that meant camping made men at just about every entry and exit point when they were in public like this.

Truthfully, Chris barely notices it, now - the reflection of Max’s strong profile in the door window leading below, and the worn heels of Thomas’ leather shoes through the bottom of the guard rails along the top deck above. If anything, the two of them are just like Chris’ heartbeat, or the feeling of his tongue in his mouth: completely ordinary. So constant, that he didn’t really notice their shadows or presence at all - until he stopped to think about it.

And usually, he just didn’t think about it.

Sipping his champagne, Chris smiles at another group of guests as he passes them by on his way back to the crowd, into the thumping heart of the dance floor. The song has changed to an upbeat, Bollywood inspired electronica song and Chris can feel it in his bones as he joins the group of guys and girls he had been dancing with earlier. He moves along to the rhythm, rolling his hips in sync to the beat of the song.

As the track reaches its final climax, confetti explodes from overhead, raining red, white and blue down onto the crowd below as everyone cheers and continues to move to the music. Chris laughs at the wild reaction, and holds his champagne glass up to catch as many of the small paper pieces as he can.

The music swells again and the party continues on, even as the sun begins to set on the pink Florida coastline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the beginning of mafia!Zach and mafiawife!Chris - ahh! And here's a link to the song Chris is dancing to for the majority of this part: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cI1A405jBqg


	2. he's my drugstore cowboy, italian alloy, classical american

Late that night, once everyone has been seen back to the coast, Chris showers in the en suite bathroom.

It’s small but ostentatious, all custom with heavy slate counter tops, brushed steel faucets, and a wide mirror that takes up the entire expanse of one wall. Chris stands in front of the mirror, a towel slung low around his hips as he brushes at the damp hair on the crown of his head. When they get back to Los Angeles, he needs to visit his barber.

Chris licks his lips and tilts his head to the side, looking at his face from both angles as he listens to the low register of Zach’s steady voice in the attached bedroom. Sniffing, Chris brushes a piece of towel lint from his stubble, and then turns around to unwrap the towel from around his hips. He switches it for the white bath robe that he’d earlier hung from the hook on the back of the door, and hits the overhead lights as he moves back into the bedroom.

When he passes through the doorway, still tightening the knot at his waist, he sees Zach on the bed before he notices anything else in the room.

Zach looks decidedly rumpled after a day spent in the wind and sun. His legs are spread, each foot pointed towards opposite ends of the bed, toes bare and ankles tanned against the white sheets. He hasn’t changed since the party, when he had been wearing Vilebrequin boat shorts and white shoes - although Chris does notice now that he has taken his belt off, and laid it across the back of the sitting chair.

“Your job is to do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it,” Zach is saying into his iPhone, his voice steady and quiet, a never wavering line of calm in the sea of sharks they swim in.

His eyes immediately track to follow Chris’ movements as he comes back in from the bathroom.

“And I am telling you this right now - when something has to be done, we do it,” Zach is continuing, one of his eyebrows raising a small fraction as Chris catches his eye and presses the pads of his own pointer and middle fingers against his lips in a their version of an across-the-room kiss.

He heads over to the built-in dresser and listens to the sound of Zach’s steady breathing behind him, the slide of Zach’s legs against the bed clothes that they haven’t yet slept in. Licking his lips, Chris pulls out a pair of clean underwear from the top drawer, and then double checks the time from Zach’s watch discarded on top.

Almost 1:30 in the morning. Zach doesn’t keep regular business hours, but this is late, even for him.

“I will not accept anything less than a full commitment from you,” Zach is saying, now. When Chris turns around, he notices that Zach has changed positions. He still has one hand holding the iPhone up to one ear, but he’s moved the other to rest against the flat of his stomach, along the inside of the front of his pants. His fingers are tucked inside, but his thumb is still hooked down over the zipper.

Chris looks away out of habit when there are a few bright flashes from outside. There are other yachts still anchored along the same stretch of water they’re on, and it only takes a second for Chris to realize that one of them are still lighting off fireworks. Bright, golden flashes of sparkly light bloom across the navy black sky, and Chris stands for a moment, watching, lost in the reflection of the fireworks against the glass top of the ocean.

“When I say jump, you don’t ask me how high. You just fucking jump,” Zach intones, as Chris walks along the length of the massive windows, eyes still searching out the lights in the sky. Somewhere outside someone is still playing loud party music, though Chris can barely hear the thrum of it through the thick walls of their cabin.

Chris’ toes sink into the plush beige carpet as he turns to walk back towards the bed, underwear still in hand.

When he reaches the foot of it, he bends down to run his free hand down the arch of Zach’s foot, the bone of his ankle, the strong muscle of his shin. Zach’s fingers twitch in his pants, but he continues his low conversation steadily, both eyes on Chris as Chris kneels down against the foot of the bed, his body swaying a little against the soft mattress. He drops the underwear he pulled out of the drawer onto the duvet cover.

Digging his knees into the mattress, Chris begins to crawl up from the foot of the bed, one leg on either side of Zach’s torso as he moves. He tries his best to hold his bath robe closed as he shuffles up, stopping to settle his weight just above Zach’s knees, the round of his ass pressed against the strongest part of Zach’s thighs.

“No,” Zach says into the iPhone, voice clipped, confident. He slides the hand back out from the front of his pants, and reaches over to the bedside table, fingers moving deftly as he picks up his lighter and pack of Marlboros.

He gets the pack opened one-handed, and taps a cigarette filter directly into his mouth as he pauses, listening intently to the person on the other end of the line.

Chris, body still loose and warm from the booze and sun he’d had earlier, leans forward at the hip, reaching down to let both hands smooth over Zach’s bare chest. Chris has always gotten off on the hair thing, and when Zach is spread out under him like this, it’s like being presented with a cake full of candy on his birthday.

He presses both palms into Zach’s lean muscles, watching carefully as Zach lights his cigarette, and then drops both the pack and the lighter back onto the bedside table.

“It doesn’t work that way. I don’t work that way, and therefore my family does not work that way,” Zach intones, tilting his head back against the pillow to take a deep drag from his cigarette. He pulls the filter from between his lips and rests the curve of his palm against the crown of his head, smoke drifting through the air above him as he watches Chris’ face as Chris moves his hands over Zach’s chest. “You want in, I will allow you to take part. You don’t do it my way, you do not receive the invitiation.”

Licking his lips, Chris catches Zach’s eye and leans forward, waiting for Zach to bring the cigarette back from where it’s resting above his head. Zach pauses to bend his arm up and ash it into the ashtray on the beside table, but then he brings it out, holding it at mouth height so Chris can take a drag.

Chris doesn’t smoke often - he prefers to use pills for anxiety - but he likes to get by on a few drags when he’s warm and drunk on champagne and shots of Gran Patrón Platinum.

Mouth relaxing, Chris exhales into the air above them, and then goes back to rubbing Zach’s muscles, the pleasant thrum of nicotine spiraling through his muzzy head as he touches the warm stretches of skin of Zach’s chest, torso, shoulders.

“No. I don’t bargain,” Zach continues, taking another lazy drag of his cigarette. 

His eyes flicker down Chris’ torso, to where his bare cock is pressed against Zach’s legs underneath the bath robe, and then back up to his chest, where there is just a slice of golden tan showing from behind the fluffy white collar. Chris sees something hot click behind Zach’s dark gaze before Zach reaches up, head tilting against the pillow as he navigates his half smoked cigarette back into the ash tray above.

Zach’s hand trails back down, low enough to run up one of Chris’ bare thighs as Zach shifts his own hips against the mattress, and then lets his gaze fall down to Chris’ navel. Chris leans back a fraction, letting his hands rest at his sides as Zach’s free hand moves from Chris’ thigh to the knot of his bath robe instead.

With a few tugs Zach has the belt undone, and without it the robe falls open, exposing Chris’ bare chest to the cool temperature controlled cabin air. Zach runs his fingers down the middle of Chris’ torso, separating both sides of the robe, and lets his gaze wander back up to see Chris’ reaction as the robe falls further away and exposes his cock to the air, too.

Chris grins down at Zach, every inch of him an exhibitionist, and reaches down to purposely press the robe open even more, showing off as he watches Zach silently drink his exposed skin in.

After a moment of Zach’s hot gaze on his bare flesh, Chris reaches forward, balancing with one hand against the headboard as he reaches for Zach’s half smoked cigarette with the other. He picks it back up out of the ash tray, and jerks in surprise as Zach smacks his outer thigh through the bathrobe, and bounces his own hips up against Chris’ ass as he settles back down.

Chris grins again, spoiled, and then leans forward, dipping down to mouth at Zach’s bare chest, his wet lips and tongue closing around one nipple before he sits back upright, and greedily puts Zach’s cigarette into his own mouth. He can’t help but let his eyes rove over Zach’s body - gaze lingering on the blank inked ‘CP’ tattooed into the muscle over Zach’s heart, ultimately the leftovers of a drunken night in Palm Beach when they were both much, much younger.

“Take a piece of my advice at no charge. Don’t make another enemy. It wouldn’t be worth your time,” Zach continues, looking hot under the collar but steady, as Chris hands the cigarette back. Zach lowers his voice, and says, “Because we both know that this isn’t worth your money. Remember that an ally is worth its weight in gold, and I’m worth more.”

As Zach pauses to drag back the last inch of his cigarette, Chris reaches down to unzip Zach’s shorts.

Zach is already half hard as Chris gets the zipper down, hands careful because Zach isn’t wearing anything underneath his shorts. Chris glances up, watching the smoke pour out of Zach’s nose, from between his lips as he tilts his head back against the pillows and tries to shift his hips up into Chris’ hands.

“I’m in New York on Monday,” Zach tells the person on the phone, sounding short as he reaches up to toss the butt of his cigarette away into the ash tray. “You have until then to make your decision, and you will hear from one of my associates no matter the decision you make.”

Shuffling back on Zach’s thighs, Chris pulls Zach’s shorts lower and bites his bottom lip, looking up at Zach’s face before he trails back down to Zach’s cock again. Zach reaches down to hold his cock out with one hand, brown eyes hazy as he flickers a glance up at Chris’ reaction. Chris groans a little under his breath and leans down, rubbing one hand over the muscles of Zach’s flat abdomen.

Voice still stoic, cold, Zach turns his attention back to his telephone call, and reinterates, “Monday,” before hanging up.

The phone goes up onto the bedside table, beside the ash tray still smouldering with the butt of Zach’s cigarette. Chris smiles up at Zach again, eyebrows raised, and gets Zach’s shorts the rest of the way off, setting them on the mattress beside where their legs are pressed together.

Zach lays back, adjusting his shoulders against the feather pillows, and holds his dick out, breathing, “Baby.”

A smile spreads its way across Chris’ face as he slides backwards, moving his legs to settle inbetween Zach’s knees instead of on top of them. His palms sink into the pillow top of the mattress on either sides of Zach’s hips as he leans forward, eyes trailing up Zach’s body to look at Zach’s face as he holds his mouth open, lips relaxed, pink and shiny with spit.

Zach groans softly at the invitation and shifts the heels of his feet against the blankets, trying to position his hips so he can bounce the head of his cock against Chris’ bottom lip.

He groans again, tongue rolling against his own bottom lip as he watches Chris’ mouth. Chris lets Zach rub the head of his cock against his wet lips for a few moments before he moves, closing his mouth to kiss it instead, wet and opened lips, eyes blinking and gazing up at Zach from below the line of his chest, his stomach, his thighs. 

After a few more bumps of Zach’s cock to his mouth, Chris finally groans and closes his eyes, sliding his own warm hand underneath Zach’s as he sinks his mouth down the length of Zach’s cock.

“Yeah,” Zach breathes, his hand dropping down to the mattress, tanned fingers winding into the linen duvet cover.

Chris tilts his head to the side to roll his gaze up, loving to watch as Zach’s chest begins to move up and down as he breathes harder, head titled back against the pillow. Chris closes his eyes and presses his hand more firmly to Zach’s pelvis as Zach starts to angle his hips up, trying to get further into Chris’ mouth. Sliding his hand further down, Chris lays his palm and fingers around the base of Zach’s cock and swallows most of Zach down; his eyes watering, throat working against the width of Zach inside of him.

Breathing through his nose, Chris pulls up and then pushes down again, tongue rolling inside of his mouth, moving between the roof of his mouth and the top of Zach’s cock. Once Chris is in a rhythm he drops his shoulder, using the opportunity to look up at Zach’s face instead, eyes a little watery, cheeks pink and flushed.

It’s a moment before Zach tilts his gaze down and opens his eyes.

When he does open his eyes, Chris can see the moment that real heat floods behind his gaze: the realization that Chris is staring up at his face while sucking him off. Something inside of Zach visibly snaps as he pushes himself up from the mattress and reaches down to pull Chris up by the arm pit.

Chris makes a noise as he takes his mouth off of Zach’s cock, his own lips shiny with spit and precome as his upper half moves forward, towards Zach. Chris licks his lips and opens them to say something, but doesn’t get a chance to get a word out before Zach flips them over, one hand coming up to grab Chris by the chin and angle his face up so they can kiss deeply.

“You are,” Zach breathes, pulling far enough away to look Chris in the eyes, still holding him by the chin, fingers leaving white marks in the wake of Chris’ otherwise tanned and baked skin. “The most gorgeous fucking person,” Zach cuts himself off to kiss Chris, and then watch the way Chris looks back up at him, eyelashes still damp, an amused flicker in his eyes. “I think I have ever,” He pauses to kiss him again, tongue sliding against his mouth. “Ever met in my life.”

When Zach lets his face go Chris grins, a slow, dangerous smile as he ducks his head down and catches the pad of Zach’s thumb between his teeth. He bites it gently before he lets Zach take it out of his mouth - Zach just groans and drops it down to rub across Chris’ swollen bottom lip, instead.

“Zach,” Chris whispers, running his palm across the top of Zach’s head - fresh hair cut, maintained, always styled within an inch of its life, Chris would know Zach’s profile absolutely anywhere in the world, alive or dead - and lets his gaze flicker over the slope of Zach’s nose, his mouth.

A sharp, warm grin pulses across Zach’s face as their gazes meet, and that makes Chris’ eyes crease with a smile.

The moment is charged between them, sharp and electric as neither looks away first. Zach’s face changes again, heat flooding his cheeks, his eyes, and then the back of Chris’ head hits the pillow - the soft curves of his knees warm and pressed against Zach’s moving forearms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting more as I write it - I really appreciate any feedback in the meantime :)


	3. in my mind i am in your arms

They’re speeding down the IL-55 the next morning, as most people are making their way to their office jobs or dropping their children off at school.

Thomas is driving, his hands rested loosely around the leather steering wheel as he listens to the talk radio show that he’s tuned into the satellite radio. He loves listening to the morning relationship gurus on this station; Zach isn’t in Florida that often, so when Thomas has a chance to listen to this particular brand of airy, inappropriate life advice, he takes it.

Beside him Dave is in the passenger seat, scrolling through the morning news on his iPhone.

He’s fresh meat, brand new blood as of a few months ago - a summer intern, Zach had called him at first. Mostly he’s the one who carries their luggage and asks for the receipt at the end of every night, but everyone has their own place in this ecosystem, and Dave has really come into his own over the last few months.

“You’re driving like a total dick, you’re gonna lose Max,” Dave says, looking up from the overly bright screen of his iPhone long enough to glance in the rear view mirror, and then over at Thomas’ profile.

Thomas glances over at Dave out of the corner of his eye, and then flickers his gaze to look into the rear view mirror, where, sure enough, Max is trailing behind them in their secondary vehicle. As usual, Max is in the Charger two car lengths behind them, right where he should be.

“Max has been driving that car for five years,” Thomas finally assesses, not sparing Dave another glance as he reaches forward to turn his talk radio up. They’re talking about viagra and bedroom rejuvenation in particularly flowery terms, and Thomas doesn’t want to miss it. But before he twists the volume knob, he raises his eyebrows in Dave’s direction and asks, “How about you?”

It’s pretty obvious that Dave doesn’t know how to reply. His mouth hangs open for a second, brain clearly working overtime, before he finally recovers by staying quiet and going back to the screen of his phone.

In the back of the SUV, Chris and Zach sit on the leather bench seat. Zach sprawled out on the right side of the car, and Chris on the left - like always. Zach is always first out and last in, no matter the circumstance, and with no exceptions. 

The Orlando skyline is rapidly disappearing in the distance as they fly down the highway. They’re en route back to New York as of right now; Zach has business to attend to, and Chris has a few charity events in his calendar that he needs to knock out before they head back to the west coast.

“What are you writing?” Zach asks, glancing up from the newspaper he’s reading. 

The newspaper is another one of Dave’s odd jobs, since Zach regarded all Floridian newspapers on par with a Sunday comic book. Dave is always up at the crack of dawn, and en route to the closest newsstand to pick up Zach’s highly coveted morning copy of The New York Times. Zach likes the crossword; Chris likes seeing what his friends are up to in the Arts and Entertainment section.

Chris makes a face at Zach’s question, and then frowns before he answers, “Zoe wants me to make a speech at this gala on Saturday night. I have no idea what to say, because I have no idea how to speak to children. And there will be a hundred of them in front of me. Sitting, and staring. And listening.”

“If it makes you feel any better, they’re kids,” Zach starts, shrugging one shoulder as he flips a page in his newspaper. “They probably won’t be listening anyway.”

Chris considers that, turning his head to study the profile of Zach’s face in the strange morning light. The draw of his eyebrows, and the stubble that curves around his jaw line before disappearing up into his hair. All things that make Zach so uniquely Zach.

After a second of thinking this, and tapping the tip of his pen against the hotel notecard he’s been scribbling a notes onto, Chris finally says, “Thanks.”

Zach doesn’t answer him. He just reaches one hand across the leather seat to blindly touch the side of Chris’ face, the backs of his fingers trailing over Chris’ cheekbone before they slide down over his shoulder and into his lap. Chris’ hand flexes and moves out of habit as Zach takes his hand in his own, twining their fingers together.

“If I could be there, I would,” Zach finally says after a second, not looking up from the opinion piece he’s reading.

Licking his lips, Chris feels the twisted pit of anxiety in his stomach settle a little as he holds onto Zach’s hand and turns to look out the window, his shitty speech forgotten. The world is strangely dark through the black tint of the car window pane.

“I know,” Chris responds, with a quiet beat and soft voice as he watches the highway speed past outside.

~

An hour later they’re on tarmac, all five of them - first Max, then Dave, then Zach, Chris, and Thomas - walking towards the small chartered jet.

Chris adjusts his sunglasses against the glare of the bright sun beginning to bow over the upper curve of the aircraft, where it’s just beginning to peek over the sleek white metal, painted strips of bright light across the dark grey ground.

He’s still a bit hungover from being on the water yesterday, if he’s totally honest, and the glare is doing nothing to help his headache.

“Is there food on this thing?” Chris asks, feeling a bit restless as Max heads up the small set of stairs that lead up into the jet. He greets the one on-board flight attendant at the door with a handshake and a neutral expression on his face before disappearing inside.

Thomas is at Chris’ elbow, a shadow that forever follows him around with sunglasses so dark that Chris can’t even tell where he’s looking half of the time.

“We ordered ahead,” Thomas answers after a second, sounding distracted as he watches the entrance to the plane, and then exchanges some kind of hand signal with Max. When Max disappears back inside, Thomas reaches backwards, ushering Chris forward with one hand on his back as he adds, “You can eat in the air.”

Chris starts moving again, heading up the stairs first, before Zach and then finally Thomas and Dave.

The interior of the jet is not theirs, but it’s familiar enough. Almost every private chartered flight is kind of like this - with a gold and brown interior, bright little yellow pot lights, fresh white napkins and black seat belts with shiny silver buckles.

“Good morning gentlemen, and what can I get you all for drinks?” The flight attendant asks, her dark brown hair pulled back into a smooth bun as she stands at the front of the cabin with a soft smile on her face, and a curious arch to her eyebrow. “Coffee all around?”

Zach nods at her, and takes a seat in the middle of the plane, aisle seat. He adds, “Black, thanks.”

“No coffee - just half champagne, half orange juice,” Chris says, as he settles into the window seat beside Zach. He immediately pulls the shade down and slides his sunglasses off, folding them into the front of his t-shirt instead.

As the flight attendant nods and offers him a small smile, Zach stretches out in his chair, crossing one knee over the other as he pulls his phone out with one hand, and rests the other arm around the back of Chris’ seat.

“So four black coffees, and one mimosa,” She reiterates, before waiting a beat in case anyone wants to add anything else. When there’s silence all around, she nods and heads to the back of the cabin, where she then disappears behind a little tan coloured curtain.

Chris leans back further into his chair and licks his lips, crossing his arms over his chest. He might doze off on the way back to Manhattan, even though he’s still got to finish writing this speech. Maybe he’ll just wing it, instead. Zoe did get kind of pissed off the last time he’d done that, though - but he’d also been speaking to a group of battered women at the time, not kids.

Kids would probably appreciate his jokes a little more.

“Somebody needs to get Cacace on the phone,” Zach says, clicking his phone off and sliding it back into the chest pocket of his suit jacket. His fingers scratch at the leather above Chris’ head; it makes Chris’ ear perk up at the quiet, soft sound of it. “He needs to know that we’re coming back today.”

Max, Zach’s unshakeable right hand man- the perfect counterbalance to Chris, Zach’s fourth finger left hand man - nods and sits in the seat opposite. He calls someone and holds the phone up to his ear as Dave starts unloading the bag of food that had been waiting for them when they’d arrived.

The smell of eggs and salsa rouses Chris away from where he’d been coasting into sleep, comfortable in his position between the wall and Zach, who smelled like aftershave and ocean.

“You want some of everything, Mr. Pine?” Dave asks, eyebrows raising as he pops open a few of the containers, and reaches for a plate that has clearly been provided by the airline. White bone china with gold initials. “We got eggs, salsa, some meat, and some vegetables.”

Chris nods and sits up, coasting one hand over Zach’s knee as he watches Dave tap a serving spoon of each container onto the first plate in the stack.

“Thanks, Dave,” Chris says, voice quiet against the conversation that Max is having on his cellphone as Dave hands him the plate over the back of the row of seats in front of where he and Zach are sitting. The bottom of the plate is hot, food fresh, and Chris’ stomach grumbles at the idea of eating.

He hadn’t really had a chance to eat much yesterday, other than champagne and poppers and a piece of vanilla and fondant cake.

Dave nods and hands over a napkin as well, before adding, “Sure thing.”

“Cacace isn’t jumping town, is he?” Zach asks suddenly, looking over at Thomas with a pissed off expression on his face. Chris digs into his eggs as Zach shakes his head and Max ends his phone call. Zach adds, “I’ll kill that motherfucker in Texas if I have to.”

Silence settles over them for a slow moment, as Dave dishes out another four plates of breakfast food and the flight attendant comes back with their drinks. She hands out the coffees first, and then presents Chris’ mimosa to him, fresh looking with a little spiral of orange rind against the lip of the glass.

“So sorry to interrupt, however we will be taking off shortly,” She says, voice hushed before she presents them all with another smile. “So please ensure that your seatbelts are fastened until we’re up in the air.”

It’s always weird, the strange disconnect that people afford them. Like they don’t hear the conversations, or see the holsters strapped over Zach, Thomas and Max’s shoulders. It turns out that the rumors are true: money really can buy you anything.

“Dave I need more of this salsa,” Chris says after a second, frowning a little as he leans back in his seat, and scrapes his fork against the bottom of his plate.

~

Thomas drops Chris off alone at he and Zach’s Manhattan brownstone late that afternoon.

“I’ll be downstairs,” Thomas tells him, as he flips on the light in the front hallway and drops Chris’ luggage just inside the door. “Do you have anything scheduled this afternoon?”

Chris walks across the front entrance of their home - classical New York and stunning, with its dark stained wooden staircase and matching Arenberg parquet floor. He went quite 1940s east coast with the design, lots of gold accents and emerald paint between the wooden beams; a rug, a lamp shade, a photo frame trimmed with the same colors.

Picking up the stack of mail on the front table, Chris looks at the huge vase of flowers sitting in the middle of the table with disappointment. He’d asked for a hydrangea arrangement before they’d left for Florida, and someone has given him lilacs.

“No, I don’t think so,” Chris answers, distracted as he studies the flower arrangement. Who the fuck was he with a lilac arrangement, Martha Stewart? Glancing over his shoulder, Chris adds, “Why, do you need to be the tinkerbell to my Peter Pan?”

In a rare moment of genuine amusement, Thomas smirks at him and asks, “Don’t you think that should actually be the other way around?”

“Well, welcome to my Neverland,” Chris replies, sounding faintly amused at the truth in his own words as he drops the mail back onto the table. It’s all bills and invitations to various galas; nothing he’s interested in dealing with right now. Chris pokes around at the lilac arrangement and asks, “Can I expect Wendy to come back tonight?”

The corner of his mouth still wavering with amusement, Thomas starts back towards the front door, boots heavy sounding on the wood floor, and replies, “I wouldn’t let him hear you say that.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Chris says, watching Thomas as he moves back towards the front door. As Thomas opens the door Chris turns a bit to survey the remainder of the entry hall, just a quick coast of the eyes to see if anything else has changed since they were last here a few weeks ago. 

It’s still as clean, as shiny, as polished as ever. There aren’t even shoes by the front door.

“Call me if you need me,” Thomas says by way of adieu, as he closes the front door behind him.

The security system auto-alarms, its beep echoing throughout the front hall as Chris offers a too-late wave and turns in the direction of the kitchen. He is fully prepared to make himself a drink before he gets to tackling this speech that he needs to write for Zoe’s charity-turned-gala event.

It’s moments like these when Chris thinks about how its a lonely life, this one that he’s chosen to live with Zach. But it’s a life that he wouldn’t choose to have any other way. Even now.

~

Late afternoon quickly turns to twilight, and then true night.

In the last few hours, Chris has managed to write down a skeleton of a speech for the gala, shower, and pour himself a wide glass of Chivas Regal.

Now he stands in the kitchen, eating food right out of the fridge as he watches the television mounted over the fireplace in the sitting room at the side of the kitchen. A family space, the realtor had called it, when they’d first walked through on the day that Zach made the offer.

Hair damp from the shower, Chris gets his fill of food, booze, and reality television, and then heads upstairs to sleep.

~

Zach returns that night.

It’s late, like, next day late, but he comes home right as the morning light is beginning to break through the curtains. Their bedroom is cast in cool blue twilight as the door creaks open, and then quietly swings closed.

Zach pulls the white linen covers back and slides into bed behind Chris silently, limbs weary with exhaustion as he settles against the mattress and lets his heavy head sink into the pillow. Chris only wakes up enough to realize what’s going on when Zach snuggles in behind him, kissing the back of his neck as one arm slides around his waist.

Making a sleepy noise of protest at being woken up, Chris makes a disgruntled face until the haze of sleep begins to drift away, slowly clearing from his brain like morning fog. 

Zach feels warm against him but his skin is cool, recently showered. He wraps his arm around Chris’ waist, hand spread over the front of Chris’ chest, and tugs Chris’ body backwards, sliding them closer together until Chris’ back is warm and curved against the front of his chest.

Still in that hazy place between sleep and awake, Chris smells the scent of soap. Zach smells clean, too clean, like he’s recently been hosed and scrubbed down with cheap, industrial soap. Pushing himself up a little, Chris looks back over his shoulder, at Zach’s face behind him.

“Are you okay?” Chris asks, voice soft in the dead of the night. He can barely focus in on Zach’s profile in the dim light, but he’d know those eyebrows, the slope of that nose, these lips absolutely anywhere.

Zach nods and closes his eyes before tucking his head against the curve of Chris’ shoulder.

“Safe and sound,” He says after a moment, voice rough, run out.

He can’t help it - Chris stays like that for a moment, body still as he studies Zach in the dark. After a moment he finally nods and then settles back down, his cheek against Zach’s left arm on the pillow as he brings his hand up to loop his fingers around the hand Zach has on his chest.

It’s easy, to slip back into sleep, back into Zach. Chris falls asleep just enjoying the warmth of having him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who commented on the first bits I posted. I'm having a lot of fun writing this universe and I hope you're all enjoying reading it :). As always feedback is always welcomed and very much appreciated!
> 
> Also I'll be posting some photos of how I imagine their Manhattan digs over at my tumblr (chrisandzach.tumblr.com) if anyone wants to check that out tonight. Tag: mafia fic


	4. New Series

Hey guys,

Just a heads up I will be continuing House of Gold in a series format.

Please go here for updates: <http://archiveofourown.org/series/180194>

I plan to start a new series in this universe tomorrow.


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